


Ivory Rose

by AnonymousVow



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Flower Language, Heartbreak, Infidelity, M/M, break-up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-21 00:17:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1530980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousVow/pseuds/AnonymousVow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your beauty is reflected in the eyes of others, and gold and ivory are dead things. (Yet another old de-anon from the kinkmeme)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ivory Rose

England’s always known that he is no great beauty. He doesn’t have France’s wavy golden locks - instead he has a thatch of blond mess like a mess of straw. He doesn’t have Spain’s caramel skin or Italy’s style; his body is thin and scrawny, and his eyebrows dominate his face. 

He pretends it doesn’t matter; that he doesn’t have time, being busy as a complete conqueror, ruling the high seas, extending his empire, to worry about something so meaningless as physical appearance. But he does; bishops trying to make him cut his hair and British spies in charge of Italiafying his appearance could attest to that. But at this point they’re both dead and England’s a great actor, so good that he’s almost convinced himself that he doesn’t care.

After all, even looking as boring as possible, he’d still managed to pull America, America the golden, America the beautiful, America the sky-eyed and the Hollywood-polished, broad-shouldered like the Rockies and built like the Appalachians, hadn’t he? Yes, he had. And America adores him. It’s obvious to anyone with eyes, and it’s complete balm to England’s soul. 

America swoons for his accent and marvels at old pirate-earned scars. America likes to run his fingers through England’s fur-rough hair and doesn’t even care it looks worse than ever after he’s done it. He brings him flowers, the roses both keep for their own emblems, white and red and pink and champagne-gold, sprigs of jasmine accompanied by packets of jasmine tea, wildflower bunches of forget-me-nots and gentian and honeysuckle. America worships England’s body in bed and is always draping himself over it outside.

And, most obviously, America loves England’s eyes. 

He always has, he tells England, but it’s only now he can show it and he loves having the chance. 

And under the sun-bright force of all that love, England can’t help but begin to believe it, to see himself through America’s eyes. It’s a heady feeling, to suddenly be loved as a beloved beauty than to live as a lonely country.

It seems others can see through America’s eyes too. The new confidence and the glowing happiness combine with the lure of the forbidden, the wonder of what attractions others clearly see, and suddenly England finds himself desired.

France’s smiles are less mocking and more inviting nowadays, his voice pitched low when he speaks so England has to lean in to hear him. Spain seems to have forgotten the Armada, and he is forever dropping things and bending over to pick them up in front of England’s eyes, wiggling provocatively and casting smoldering Latin glances over his shoulder as he does so. Prussia crows and slings his arm around England and whispers in his ear. Belgium is friendlier than ever, and the Italies pour him wine.

England scoffs but smiles, and preens in the secret heart of himself. He feels young again, discovering power over others all over again, like finding new empire. 

Drinking is pleasant now, not teary affairs. He doesn’t need to weep about the Revolution because what he’d lost then has come back to him, and even when America’s not there he finds himself not lonely.

The others buy him drinks and they all laugh together. They laugh and they touch and France and Prussia argue good-naturedly over who gets to sit next to him, while Spain simply elects to sit in England’s lap and grind that perfect ass against him. England’s all fuzzy and warm from the good drink and good companionship and it feels all so good, so he drinks his German beer and French wine and Spanish rum, leans against France and savors the warmth of Spain, purrs as Prussia rubs his shoulders, and wakes up in a warm tangle of bodies.

It’s late, he realizes, yawning and stretching as familiar delicious aches echo in his bones, late afternoon because drink and sated exhaustion have stolen the morning away and left him sleep instead. 

There’s a pounding at the door, he realizes, beyond the pounding in his skull, and he climbs over Spain and France, curled up in a border-shared ball together while pushing a snoring Prussia’s arm away, grabbing someone’s (not his) discarded jeans and pulling them on hopping as he makes his way to the door.

It’s a delivery man, bland-faced and hurrying to his next delivery, politely asking for signatures on high-tech computer things and why isn’t pen and paper good anymore? and offering receipts. It’s a gift for England - from America - rush delivery - the deliveryman leaves, efficient and quiet, as England opens the small box.

A sinking feeling fills his body as he looks at the gift, another flower like America always sends, but different. A white rose, ivory now in color, lacquered and edged in gold, every delicate detail of leaf and petal preserved in gilded beauty. It’s beautiful. It’s precious. 

It's dead.

It’s a dead rose, as dead as Egypt’s pyramid-tombed mummies and pyramid-building mother, as dead as butterflies trapped in airless glass, as dead as the ashes kept in an ivory-and-gold urn - as dead as fairies when those they love cease to believe in them.

England knows, even before he reads the small slip of paper - neat and computer-printed, instead of the scraps of scrawled affection America usually enclosed - that confirms it, what America means and knows and ends with this last gift, and he feels all the beauty - all the beauty of what he'd had with America; all the beautiful pleasure he'd indulged in with his neighbors; all his belief in his own beauty, fed and lit by America’s blue eyes on him - all of that sliding away to make room for a familiar rain-gray feeling, the feeling of kneeling in the mud of a combat-scarred hill and raising his eyes to see America’s back fading into the distance.

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt: _"England is not attractive. Not as flashy as France nor as gorgeous as America. So he has had difficulties to find a partner. But thanks to their 'History' or however else he gets to date America who is a wonderful sweet boyfriend._
> 
> _But just now he begins to recieve the attention he never got before. France suddently woos around him. Spain is trying to use DAT ASS on him, etc._
> 
>   _Though he's incredibly happy with America he cannot help but to feel flushed."_
> 
>  
> 
> Flower Meanings:
> 
> Rose, Red – Passionate love; I love you
> 
> Rose, White and Red – We are inseparable
> 
> Rose, White and Red Mixed – Unity; Flower emblem of England
> 
> Rose, White – I am worthy of you; spiritual love; Innocence and Purity; Secrecy and Silence
> 
> Rose, Pink – Brilliant complexion; the glow of your smile; perfect happiness
> 
> Rose, Champagne – You are tender and loving
> 
> Jasmine — Grace
> 
> Gentian — Loveliness
> 
> Forget-Me-Not — True love
> 
> Honeysuckle — Bonds of love
> 
> And, most importantly: "Regardless of the original color, a dead rose symbolizes that the relationship is dead."


End file.
